


a crossroad of lost souls

by bloomseey



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (in a haunted house), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Roommates, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, But they'll be fine, Close calls with death, Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Sexual Content, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Urban Fantasy, Violence, Witch Keith (Voltron), Witch Lance (Voltron), With A Twist, a bit of horror, because they’re both reckless, messing with dangerous magical practices and supernatural entities, probably, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 19:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18394634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomseey/pseuds/bloomseey
Summary: Keith was born awitah(a being gifted with magical powers) as part of the Coven of the Red Lion. His childhood was made up of losses and tragedies. At 22, Keith owns a shop,Sola Corda, where he offers solutions and remedies to lost souls and solitary hearts. Keith avoids human contact outside his customers. But time is running out.So when Keith put up posters looking for a shop associate, and Lance, a witah of the Coven of the Blue Lion, shows up at his doorstep, Keithknowsthat despite the magic that flows in his veins, Lance is the most fundamentallymagicthing he’s ever seen. Lance with his big maelstrom blue eyes and smile brighter than the sun. Lance who seems to bear the inheritance of loss as well, and is running away from a past desperate to catch up to them.And time is running out for these two lost souls, these two solitary hearts who will meet up at the crossroad of their strangely linked fate.





	a crossroad of lost souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the third of November.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This is my first Klance fic. Very self-indulgent, but hopefully, you'll like it too ^^

It was the third of November.

And since it was the third of November, Keith was in a sullen mood.

Truth be told, Keith wore “sullen” more like a second skin, a way of life, than a mood.

But that particular day, Keith was _sullen_ , in _italic_ , because he woke up to a profound and familiar feeling of great loss.

Because today was the third of November, and that due to a funny twist of fate, or other bullshit like that, the worst tragedies of Keith’s life had all played out on the third of November,.  
So much that all thirds of November, of November had been spent in a state of mournful apathy or raging daredevilry.

Today was the third of November.

But not any third of November, if any existed at all regarding that day.

It was the third of November during Keith’s twenty-second year of existence.

It was the first thrid of November of the rest of his life.

And it went by in a most different yet strangely nondescript fashion that Keith failed to notice the only dissonant wrinkle to disrupt that day as an omen foretelling of a future cataclysm.

It was the first third of November of the rest of his life, and as Keith knew it had only ever went with tragedy, the peculiarity of that very year, precisely, should have caused an anticipatory thought to cross his mind: that it was going to herald the greatest bliss of his life.

 

***

  
A curtain of rain is falling upon the city, putting a premature end to the show of Life for every inhabitant-actor-spectator in Altea. It is an uncertain rain, caught in a crossroad of snow, hail and vapor depending on how fast one blinks or where one looks. Most likely the work of a _caeruleum_ frustrated by rain they can’t control.

Raindrops drip on, crash on and vanish from Keith’s bright red leather jacket (the kind that’s frightfully tacky, the kind that gives headaches and heart attacks to anyone even remotely aware of what _fashion_ is) and keep his mane of raven black hair halfway through wet-dog-looks and fizzy-ear-of-wheat-looks. His shiny black skin-tight faux-leather jeans ripped at the knees glisten weakly under the mouse-grey sky, black beaten combat boots (funny thing is, Keith is always fighting against something) squeaking on the cobblestones. Keith looks very much like a sick and drenched and wraith-like crow, and feels like one since he woke up that morning with a taste of rot in his mouth. From time to time, he kicks some hailstones that ricochet across the street. Keith pretends that they symbolize all his past issues buried deep six feet under. Except it’s a goddamn joke as Keith keeps marching on and walks past them, and remembers them as if they were hammering on the headpanel of their casket like the damned. No matter how hard he tries to run away, he can never completely outrun them.

Keith wishes he could kick his problems away for ever.

Keith has wished for a lot of things, but Life has always liked to remind him _life_  isn't fair. So Keith tried to stop wishing.

Among the yellowing frothing of his mind’s restless sea, Keith is wondering why he didn’t decide to stay in bed that morning, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and a ratty band t-shirt, stifled by a rancid and vaguely sweat-damped fleece blanket, remains of a night spent in nightmarish hellscape. Riddled with regular insomnia, Keith has always wondered why, on every third of November night, the mystical and mysterious forces of the universe liked to force sleep upon him to make him (re)live his worst nightmares in striking lucidity. But like most questions, such as: why has the collective psyche decided that tomato, a fruit, would be considered a vegetable, or _why was I born if only to live in a constant and neverending state of suffering,_ it does not have a straightforward answer.

But truth be told, Keith kinda knows why he dragged himself out of his croaked bed that morning, why he sluggishly staggered across his squeaking and dusty wooden floor to get to his antique wardrobe (the drawer containing his socks had apparently flown across the room during the night to crash near the window; he is not the only one to have spent a shitty, restless night), why he got dressed with a sense of nostalgia like the one you get the last morning of the holidays, why he (once again) ignored the message notifications flashing on the screen of his phone lying forgotten in the kitchen sink, why he poured himself a bowl of cereals with milk before realizing he had mistaken the cereal box with a bag of chips (at this point, his last fuck had been dead and gone a long while ago, so) that he ate unperturbed, why he went down the stairs not forgetting to skip the thirteenth step, why he trudged through his shop grabbing a handful of salt and throwing it toward the left corner at the far end of the room before finally walking out the front door.

It is because Keith needs to go check on the posters he put up looking for an associate. And by checking on them, Keith means quickly glancing at the little pre-cut strips of paper on which he wrote his address (not that it is that necessary). Not his phone number, not his email address, because as much as Keith loathe social, face-to-face interactions, he can’t gauge anyone through a telephone line or a computer screen.

Unsurprisingly, Keith notes that almost all his posters are intact except for some, freshly graffitied with diverse slurs against various aspect making up Keith’s identity. Bigots never die, no matter the era. But what makes his gloved fingertips crackle, what kindles a vicious flame deep inside his pupils, what makes his body heat up to volcanic levels, are the “ _dirty demon bastard”_ , “ _go rot in hell, you’re worse than the deem kraals_ ” scrawled like spit across one of the poster Keith put up on a wall near the church. In a fit of anger, Keith smashes two fingers against the paper that burst into flame and falls to ashes at his feet. The red, almost blacks, flames dissipate and Keith hastily flinches away from the wall when he notices that the insults didn’t disappear but are now scurrying toward him, as if the ink was made up of minute parasites. Eyes widened, Keith scrambles backward but he’s not fast enough as the animated words already have a grip on the tips of his boots, hurrying up under the cuffs of his jeans. Keith stumbles, jiggles his legs madly, cursing low and filthy when he feels them crawling up along his legs, like urticaria. The ink burns and itches. Already, they reached his torso. The animated words creep on the soft skin of his throat and Keith clamps both of his hands around it as he crashes to the ground of the deserted street. He gasps and coughs, chokes as he squeezes his own throat, feeling the words writhing like rabid beasts. They contort themselves in mad twists looking for a crack, to keep going up and set themselves into the skin of his face, like a brand against fair china. The only thing preventing them from doing so is Keith, halfway through strangling himself. He can feel blood rushing to his head, his eyes bulging, the pressure in his lips. He’s pretty sure bruising will show on his neck when finally, Keith manages to focus enough to _burn_ , to let his fire flood him and overflow, to burn the vicious words to a crisp for real this time. He’s on the verge of fainting when his grip and body loosen. Keith slumps over himself, ink now harmless powder spilling over him when he lets go of his throat. Keith wheezes, takes in difficult breaths interrupted by coughing fits.

Keith scrambles backward until his back hits the opposing wall. He curls into himself, pulling his knees up against his chest, sinking his head between his knees, arms tighly wound around his shins. He’s shivering with rage and insidious humiliation. He almost loses his fragile temper when his shallow breath refuses to settle back into a normal rhythm.

Keith barely hears the voice calling out to him.

“Hey dude? … You okay? Because you don’t look like you are…

Careful footsteps. Some more worried questions thrown his way in the air. Keith has enough of his bearings to feel that the person is getting closer, ready to settle a hand on his shoulder.

Keith doesn’t want anyone’s worry or pity. Least of all the one of a stranger.

“Go away,” Keith spits. His voice is even more hoarse and raspier than usual. It scrapes his throat. The person seem to hesitate.

“Get the fuck away from me! Keith snarls, louder, even if his voice cracks halfway through.

He curls tighter into himself and flinches away abruptly without looking up.

“Okay, okay, jeez ! Relax, asshole, I’m fucking off.”

And the person walks away, grumbling under their breath.

Whatever.

Keith should have stayed in bed.

What was he thinking anyway. The chances that someone even consider to come work with him at the shop are _slim to none_. Because Keith has a reputation. And not in the best way, although that could depend of who you ask. As a person, he’s known to be the cold, aloof, moody, sullen _witah_ of Saskatoon Street. As the _ruber_ from the Red Lion Coven, flaunting all the stereotypical traits of its disciples: impulsive, distruthful, temperamental. And his shop isn’t to everyone’s liking either: a last chance for lost causes, for strayed souls and solitary hearts. His methods aren’t always orthodox, sometimes dangerous, always genuine in intent. No pretenses, only the hard truth. People advised against him taking up residence at 24 Saskatoon Street, the most haunted place in all Altea, but to everyone’s surprise, Keith managed to subdue the place.

And so there are people who hate _witahs_. People who hate  _rubra,_ the  _witahs_ who are part of the Red Lion Coven specifically. And then there are people who hate Keith personally, because of what he does and how he does it.

Sometimes, Keith shares the sentiment. When the night is too dark, solitude too stifling, past too paralyzing.

Fingers wound up in his hair, Keith tugs on it to bring himself back to reality.

The rain has stopped, Keith realizes when he looks up from his place on the ground. He rolls his neck, cringing when pain shoots up. He braces a hand against the wall to hoist himself up to his feet. The street is still deserted, traces of the stranger now long gone, apart from a man who spared him a strange look when he walks past him. Keith ignores it, shakes his hand and immediately, his clothes and hair are dry. He runs a hand through his hair before giving up: no use in trying to get his matted mane in order when his fingers are still all jittery.

Keith considers going back home. But he still has a place to check out and he is not the kind of person to run back home tail tucked between his legs despite how bad the evil spell has shaken him. And _Voltron_ is one of the few places in Altea that Keith enjoys staying at outside his shop and _Hieronymus’ Bizarro Bizarri Emporium_.

Keith digs into his jacket pocket to retrieve a purple silk foulard that he ties loosely around his neck to hide the newly formed bruises already blossoming on his skin. This is when he notices the scorched tips of the glove on his right hand. Keith sets his jaw, hissing some curses under his breath as he starts walking again. Stiff, head held high, he follows the meandering street that’ll get him to _Voltron_.

 

***

 

Tucked away at the far end of a cul-de-sac after following a serpentine grid of streets and alleyways and other barely noticeable passageways, _Voltron_  is the kind of place that finds its way to you rather than the opposite, at first. You either stumble upon it when you get lost one day in Altea (known for all its secluded nooks, winding streets and secret passageways) or you hear about it from someone else. The building isn’t much to look at from the outside. A dark wooden facade, pierced by little faded stained-glass windows. A large tinplate sign sits on top of the front door. No one knows what was the original name of the building: only the letters V-O-L-T-R-O-N survived the passage of time. And so everyone calls it _Voltron_. If Keith scaled the crooked gutter fixed to the wall and reached out an arm to brush the sign with his fingertips, he probably could uncover the mystery. But he never did, and doesn’t want to. Keith doesn’t know much joy in his life, and keeping some mystery is one of them.

Standing outside the building, Keith pushes through the heavy door to enter a narrow hall. A door on his left (the coffee shop), a door on his right (the arcade), a long hallway with slanted walls leading up to a spiral staircase (second floor: thrift shop, third floor: theater, fourth floor: library). Without hesitation, Keith walks through the door on his left and instantly, he is hit with comforting aromas of fresh coffee, hot chocolate and sugary whipped cream. Few patrons are scattered here and there in the main room, sitting at massive wooden tables on deep red leather seats. Muted conversations filter softly, that Keith easily obscures.

A shadow of a smile falls on Keith’s face as his gaze zeroes on two humongous blonde pigtails bouncing lazily as the young woman bustles around the bar. She has her back to him as Keith makes his way to the bar with cat-like stealth. She is busy cleaning a coffee pot, singing to herself, a towel thrown over her shoulder.

She startles when she turns around to see Keith leaning on his elbows over the counter.

“Keith! You’re worse than a cat!” she scolds.

“Hey, Ro’.”

Keith is rather glad that his voice doesn’t give away that he almost died of strangulation a little over thirty minutes ago. Much. He hopes that his feeble smile is still there on his lips. If it is, it must be really gaunt, because Romelle furrows her brows.

“You look awful. And I know that “hey, Ro’” is basically code for “I don’t wanna talk today” as if there were days where you like to talk," Romelle says, rolling her eyes.

Romelle will always be blunt with you. That’s what Keith likes about her, even though he tries to not let things get too friendly between them. He couldn’t risk them becoming friends.

Keith only flicks his gaze away to look at the the menu to avoid Romelle’s searching and reproachful stare.

“Stop that, Mr. Lone Wolf. One of these days you won’t be able to take it anymore and before you even know it, you’ll have…

She pauses, in a very dramatic fashion that has Keith scoffing. He glances at her, sees that she has her two hands squishing her puffed up cheeks, eyes wide.

“A FRIIIIIEND!” she almost shouts.

“Or even worse,” she adds, with mock dread.

Keith sighs. He keeps his eyes glued to the menu board.

“I regret the day you stepped into my shop. And accepted to take your case.”

“Sure you do,” she says and whips him once with her towel on the arm. Keith glares at her.

“Glare all you want, Kogane. One day, you’ll lose all your marbles and even if it’s not me, or today, you’ll get a taste of sweet, sweet friendship and you won’t ever get enough of it.”

 _If only you knew,_ Keith thinks. But nobody knows. Nobody knows anything about him, or his past. Well, actually, _two persons_ do, as the notifications on his phone like to remind him.

“How about you just let me choose what I want,” Keith says.

“You always take the same thing, Keith. I _know_ what you want.”

She turns to grab a red bone china teapot, pouring some water into it, a spoon as well as a mug and a tea bag. This, at least, Romelle _does_ know.

Romelle spins around, order ready on a silver tray. She taps two finger against the teapot before plastering a huge smile on her face.

“As usual, it’ll be 4 groggeries!”

Keith stares at her ultra-bright smile. Lifts his gaze to the small teal crescents resting on her cheekbones under her eyes. Drops his gaze to the teapot, lifts the lid and sees, without an ounce of surprise, that the water is completely frozen.

When Keith looks back at Romelle, her smile is even wider.

“Very funny, _caerulea_ ,” he says, flatly.

“Ah, thank you, _ruber_ , I think so too. Money, now! she says brightly, wiggling her fingers.

Keith huffs and digs around his pocket for some coins. He squeezes them against his palm just a second before dropping them into Romelle’s outstretched hand with a wry smile. She notices too late, as the coins have barely grazed her skin that she drops them onto the bar in a shrilling clattering and a curse. Not hot enough to burn, just enough to startle. Keith grabs the tray with his left hand before turning heels, ignoring Romelle’s outraged exclamations and the disapproving looks thrown his way by the few patrons here.

As usual, Keith is headed for the secondary room, smaller, more secluded, and toward his favored spot. That is to say, at the far end left corner of the room, in the alcove near the window, just under a painting depicting the Sonoran desert. The patrons know that it’s his spot, therefore nobody ever sits there (the perks of people fearing you, hating you or thinking you’re bad luck).

Except that. Someone’s already seated in his spot.

  
Keith sees red. The third of November is really not the day to get on his nerves.

After a short pause of disbelief, Keith stalks up to the table, ready to go off on the intruding stranger, who is wearing a dark green jacket, white hood pulled over their head, elbow resting on the table and head dropped low on their hand, when, for some unknown reason, Keith’s gaze is pulled down to the table top.

A new surge of disbelief washes over him.

The stranger isn’t moving, stuck like a photograph, and doesn’t seem to have noticed him. On the table, just under their head, is a splayed out notebook. The pages are covered in blue ink scribbles.

Or were. Because what stopped Keith is seeing the pages marred with little liquid pools, blurring the words into swirls of washed-out blue ink. Keith sees a teardrop crash into the paper, adding to the sad already formed maelstroms.

Keith stays there, frozen, transfixed by that stranger who stole his spot to cry in silence in a coffee shop/library/arcade/theater/thrift shop in front of their little notebook.

If Keith had been someone else, if he had lived a different story, he would have approached the stranger, would have asked something stupid like everybody always does “ _are you okay?_ ” knowing the answer is _no_. Maybe it’s nice that people leave you an opportunity to lie. But Keith isn’t that person, so he doesn’t come any closer to the stranger but plops down on a seat two tables away from them. There isn’t anyone else in the room.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and tugging his ruined glove off with his teeth, Keith grabs his teabag to open it before dropping it into his mug. A handkerchief isn’t as practical as a glove, but Keith makes it work. He always has trouble controlling his psychometry on the third of November, and even though Keith doubts the fact that the tableware would hold any heavy or dark history, he doesn’t want to take the risk to dive too deep. An absent minded tap on the teapot and the previously frozen water is now boiling. Keith pours half the teapot content into his mug and lets his tea brew.

Without anything else to do, Keith goes back to studying the stranger who still hasn’t moved an inch. From there, Keith can’t see if they're still crying. Their sagging and hunched shoulders are not shaking, their long legs crossed at the ankles under the table are still. An abandoned mug sits on the table in front of them. A golden bracelet peeking from their cuffs shimmers around the wrist holding their head.

They seem chilled to the bone with melancholia.

 _Not my problem,_ Keith thinks.

However, as he’s nursing his scalding hot tea, Keith can’t get the stranger out of his head, can’t seem to keep his gaze away from them for long.

There’s curiosity, unease whirling inside his chest. Worry too, strangely enough.

Keith doesn’t _meddle_. Except for when it comes to his clients, because, duh, they’re his clients. They pay him to meddle.

His fingers beat a rhythm against his thigh. His leg jitters. He worries his lips between his teeth. He tries looking at the paintings on the walls. Some of them are new. Keith is barely resisting the urge to get up and smash two finger on the frame to know their history if only to get his mind off the stranger. Losing control of his psychometry is way more tempting than fixating on that damn stranger crying in his spot.

Oh _well_.

A fraying dark green jacket, worn off at the sleeves, slightly washed-out by the sun. A white hood turning dirty grey, still damp with rainwater. Light blue jeans darkened by rain in places, splattered with mud on the shins. Trainers which have seen better days. A grey backpack on the seat next to them. That golden bracelet against bronze skin.

A keychain hanging off the backpack, with a dangling tiny plush shark.

“Well, shit,” Keith hisses.

 _Rufus_ , Keith thinks, focusing on his intent.

A wave of emotions that are not his own but familiar nevertheless answers his call.

The connexion opened, Keith thinks at Rufus what he needs, at the same time cursing his own weakness. Ridiculous.

Curiosity and fond teasing answer his thoughts.

“It’s stupid. And ridiculous,” Keith mutters, as if, if spoken out loud, would make him see reason.

It doesn’t. And Rufus is already on his way over and won’t accept being bothered for nothing.

Several minutes later, Keith can feel Rufus’ presence in his mind with renewed clarity as well as feel him against his leg. Keith bends under the table.

The bright orange cat stares at him with his big, bright green eyes, a floret of blue hydrangea in his mouth. Keith takes it from him, rubbing his nose with the back of his index to thank him. Rufus playfully tries to bite him before peeking from under the table to look at the stranger. Curiosity echoes Keith’s own, as the cat tilts his head to the side, assessing.

Apparently satisfied, Rufus takes off with a last wave of good luck thrown Keith’s way. Keith watches him disappear like a silent shadow.

Cat gone, Keith pours the remaining water inside his empty mug. He leaves the spoon inside (Romelle’ll forgive him) and starts plucking the petals out until it feels the mug to the brim. Pressing a gloved hand and an handkerchief covered hand on either side of the mug, Keith closes his eyes and narrows down his focus.

Heat makes the water boil. It eats away at the petals which wither. It’s only the physical body of the thing, it doesn’t matter. Keith seeks its essence with his magic, separates it from the physical, surrounds it with a protective fire. There. Inside the precious essence, he seeks the belief. The sense of comfort and tranquility associated with hydrangea. There. Intangible, fragile. The metal of the spoon melts, Keith shapes it with his mind and his flames. The image of a shark takes shape in his mind, from his memories and transposes into the material world. Keith links the essence and belief of the hydrangea flower to it, hides a minute flicker of life deep inside its particles.

Keith opens his eyes. His vision is out of focus. He blinks, reigning in his magic. Inside his mug lies a little metal shark.

Keith catches it between his forefinger and middle finger. Instantly, it surges to life and weaves through his fingers. Warm, providing a sense of comfort. Keith watches the shark swimming between his fingers, on the back of his hand, lazy and steady, hypnotic. He stares until his eyes burn then blinks. The shark is motionless inside his palm. It was never alive, halfway between a little charm and optical illusion. The flicker of life and fire that Keith hid inside the metal is like a chimney fire. If you stare long enough, shapes come to life before your eyes.

Clenching his fist tightly around his creation, Keith gets up and walks toward the stranger who still _hasn’t_ moved. Taking a short, calming breath, giving the shark a last squeeze, Keith abruptly drops it onto the table, turning around and taking off at a brisk pace, resisting the urge to just run away.

Inside the main room, he only throws a hasty wave in Romelle’s direction, glancing at his poster on the bulletin board, before stumbling out on the street.

One strip of paper is missing.

 

***

 

It was the third of November.

It was the dreadful the third of November, and yet, nothing overly atrocious happened.

Keith left a little metal shark on a table for a crying stranger.

It’s too fleeting and fragile for Keith to really grasps it, but a thought occurs in his mind nonetheless: maybe, just maybe, Keith has spent too many third of November, crying all the seven seas for anyone else crying on that day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> The boys will meet properly in the next chapter.
> 
> If you wanna talk about the fic, klance or anything, you can find me [here](https://frenchbloomings.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


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